Don't Say Goodbye
by Sentimental Star
Summary: **COMPLETE** AU. A friendship once formed between an Elf and a Man, one which transcended both race and age. But when the final hour strikes, can it transcend death as well? After all, mortals have never been to Valinor...--NO Slash--
1. Thriondil

**Disclaimer:** I do not own this marvelous universe, J.R.R. Tolkien does.

**A/N: **I have read numerous fics chronicling what happened after Legolas and Gimli passed over the sea, especially in relation to what happened between Legolas and Aragorn. This is just my humble attempt at such a fic, and I hope you enjoy! Please R&R!

'**Sindarin (Elvish)'**

"**Common Speech/Westron"**

**/Personal Thoughts/**

**.:Don't Say Goodbye:.**

Chapter I: Thriondil

By Sentimental Star

-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-

My hand to yours

Let our spirits run free

Let our souls intermingle

For brothers of blood, are we

My life for your own

Your truth for my lie

When we walk we are one

And thus together we'll die.

---Heather Alexander "Blood Brothers"

-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-

(One Hundred Thirty Years Ago, Lothlórien)

_Evening. Galadriel's Garden._

_He has just finished a bout of crying and raises his head from Legolas's now thoroughly damp shoulder. His voice is hushed with weariness as he murmurs, 'Hannon-lle, quel mellon-nin.'_

''_Twas naught, Aragorn,' Legolas replies gently with a tender smile, although it is quite clear he himself was also crying, or at least, had _been_ crying._

_He shakes his head. 'Please do not call me that.'_

_Legolas is plainly startled. 'Why ever not?'_

''_Tis my name, aye, but not the one I wish to be called by you,' he answers. 'Call me Estel, as you have for many years.'_

_A second small smile graces the Elven prince's lips. 'I would not call you by that name, for 'twas the name Lord Elrond and the twins gave you.'_

_He raises an eyebrow._

_Legolas elaborates. ' 'Twas a name I called you aloud, aye, but for many years, although you _have_ been my 'estel,' I have called you something quite different in my mind and in my heart.'_

_The other eyebrow rises. '_Another_ name, Legolas? I was under the impression that I had quite enough.'_

_The Silvan Elf throws back his head in laughter. 'Aye! Estel, Elessar, Elfstone, Dúnadan, Aragorn, Strider, and Thorongil. Any others I missed?'_

'_Longshanks,' he supplies quietly, although 'tis his least favorite nickname. 'Twas one he received in Bree from the fearful and the feared, and 'twas one he never much liked._

'_And I should be glad to miss such a one as that,' Legolas retorts sternly, a glint of steel in his eyes and in his voice. 'You are no more Longshanks to me than I am an Orc to you.'_

_A mischievous smile flits across his countenance. He can say something…_

_A frown mars the prince's features—he obviously knows his line of thought very well. 'Do not even _think_ about it, mellon-nin,' he warns._

_He does his best to appear innocent 'What? I merely was going to remark on your…er…delightful disposition in the morning.'_

_He drops the look and laughs at the light scowl being shot at him by his best friend, which only serves to deepen the prince's scowl. 'Oh, mellon-nin, you must promise me you will always be here for me when I need you,' he chuckles._

_And abruptly finds his head pressed tightly against Legolas's chest, the Silvan Elf's elegant fingers tangled fast in his unruly dark hair. A fresh bout of tears is imminent as he realizes he is clutching the prince's tunic. The Firstborn's head rests atop his, the other being's golden blonde strands intermixing with his own darker ones. His beloved friend's voice is tremulous as the Elf murmurs, 'Oh, you silly human, of _course_ I will! There never was a time when I was not…'_

_His own breathing goes ragged in the silence that follows. Somehow he knows the prince has not finished. Somehow he knows whatever is to be spoken will ultimately alter their relationship for all time. He is positive Legolas knows the same._

_But no response is forthcoming._

_At last he decides to take the initiative. 'What is it that you would call me, quel mellon-nin?' he asks softly._

_Legolas merely looks at him, gaze thoughtful. Considering. Finally: '…Thriondil.'_

_Several things occur at the same time. Before his mind registers what his heart already knows, wind swirls around him, lifting his shoulder-length hair and causing the dark strands to billow about his face. Bright light swirls around he and the prince for the barest of moments, simply a fleeting touch of warmth, before the air surrounding them returns to normal._

_He can only gape at the prince. Dear Ilúvatar, Valar Across the Sea, does Legolas _know_ what naming him 'Thriondil' entails? Does he _know_ how deeply they are now connected? Does he _know_ how dangerous a decision that is?_

_He once picked up a book in his Elven father's private study out of pure curiosity soon after Lord Elrond revealed his true heritage to him—at least the first parts of it—hoping beyond hope that there existed some friendliness between these Elves whom he loved so much and the race of which he was one day supposed to be king. Consequently, he found out about the Alliance of Elves and Men (which many people, their own families included, claimed he and Legolas were the embodiment of; the Alliance of Elves and Men in actual flesh and blood)…and Elven names. Among them were 'Elf-friend' and 'Thriondil'—in fact, a whole _chapter_ was dedicated to those two particular endearments. Of those, Thriondil was most strange to him._

_It soon became clear why:_

_Thriondil. It meant "Elf-brother." And to name a mortal as such was nothing short of complete surrender of the Elf's heart and soul._

_Doesn't Legolas _know_ that?_

_A touch to his face and he turns still-widened-eyes to the prince's greatly softened midnight ones. Legolas gives a serene smile. 'Will you not say something?' he murmurs, tenderly brushing his knuckles against his cheek._

_His voice suddenly decides to work: 'Dear, sweet Eru,' he chokes. 'Have you _any_ idea what you have _done_, Elf?'_

_Legolas's eyes are dead serious. 'I know _exactly_ what I did, _Human._'_

_Tears came again. So much is there that he wants to say, to do, but he can only shake his head violently, flinging tears to the sides, and burst out thickly, 'Why?! Of all names, why call me 'Thriondil?''_

_The prince's response is passionate, heartfelt: 'Because I love you! Because you _are_ my brother!'_

**TBC**

**Elvish Translations:**

**Hannon-lle, quel mellon-nin (Thank you, my dear friend)**

**Estel (One of Aragorn's many name, the one given to him by his foster father Lord Elrond; it means "Hope")**

**Mellon-nin (My friend)**

**Thriondil (Elf-brother)**

**Quel mellon-nin (My dear friend)**


	2. Marked

**Disclaimer:** I do not own this marvelous universe, J.R.R. Tolkien does.

**Reviewers:** Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews! As for the typo in chapter one, thanks for pointing it out (that would have been an interesting name _indeed_ for a friend ::winks::) and I've fixed it. Be warned that this might not turn out exactly how you may think…

'**Sindarin (Elvish)'**

"**Common Speech/Westron"**

**/Personal Thoughts/**

**.:Don't Say Goodbye:.**

Chapter II: Marked

By Sentimental Star

-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-

No Goodbyes  
For love brightens their eyes.  
Don't say Adios, say Adios,  
And do you know why  
There's a love that won't die?  
- don't say Adios, say Adios, Goodbye.

---Enya "One By One"

-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-

Strange. That was how he would describe this place. Strange, lonesome, dark…and cold. He would have thought death would be a little more inviting.

Not that he had wanted it.

Well…in a way he supposed he had. Not of the Firstborn, his body had aged, though his heart remained young. He had been unable to function quite like he used to, and could not do things he had once been able to with ease.

But…Legolas…

The look of utter heartbreak and grief on the Elven prince's face had permanently lodged itself in his mind for all eternity. _Why_ did the Elf have to be the one to hold him when he died? _Why _did he have to name him 'Thriondil,' of all things?

But he knew. He could almost hear Legolas speak the same exact words he had so many years ago: _'Because I love you! Because you _are _my brother!'_

If he could have cried, he would have. As it was, he had absolutely no idea if spirits were capable of such things.

'_P-Promise me…gwador-nin…_promise_ me you will not a-allow yourself to…to fade.'_

'_I-I cannot…'_

'_Y-You must! Legolas, I-I shall spend all eternity steeped in guilt if y-you do not. Y-You are…a Firstborn. Valinor…awaits. And can you honestly lay…lay that grief on y-your cousins a-and your adar? O-On Gimli?'_

'_Estel, you cannot ask this of me!'_

Wisps from a dream those words seemed like now. But he had asked it of him, he _had_; he literally _forbade_ the Silvan archer from giving into the darkness of grief. And he could only _pray_ that Legolas had heeded his words.

Looking down at himself, he was shocked to note that he could see _hands_, albeit outlined with a strange glow. But they were still his hands. Boots, Ranger garb he hand not worn in years, arms, shoulders, hair. All of it was there, all of it outlined in the same light.

For what could have been thirty seconds or thirty years, he simply stood there, unable to understand what was going on. Was he truly dead? Or was this merely some sort of crazy limbo?

And he felt incredibly alone, something which hardly had occurred to him frequently.

Gradually, ever so gradually, another light—a separate light—from his own, entered his peripheral vision. Turning his head (yes, head), he watched as what started as a tiny pinprick of light steadily grew larger and larger until, in a final burst, it blazed, swallowing up the black around him. Wind whipped his hair about his face—/Wind?/ he thought in utter confusion. Light played over him, dimming even his own. That light also was growing brighter, and brighter, and brighter…

Then the Voice spoke up, seemingly resounding from everywhere. He knew not the language for it was far more like music than even the Elven tongue, but understood it nonetheless. _**Fear me not. I mean you no harm. Naught can hurt you here. You are safe.**_

The Being to whom the musical voice belonged appeared. And he could do little more than stare. He had thought Elves the most beautiful beings. Not so when faced with this One. While in the likeness of an Elf (or, more likely, Elves were made in its likeness), this Entity was by far more breath-taking than even those fey creatures. It exuded so much inner peace, strength, and serenity. For all Its seemingly delicate features, there was an aura of incredible power surrounding It. Without Its having to say a word, he knew. He was in the presence of Ilúvatar.

Bowing deeply, he murmured in Sindarin, for Common was far too coarse a tongue, 'My Lord.'

To his shock, the Being bowed back. Then straightened.

At first unable to formulate a response, he stood there for a moment. The Creator waited. Finally, he found his voice and queried, bowing again, 'Forgive me, my Lord, but where am I? Why am I here?'

The Being seemed incredibly amused, but how he could tell, Aragorn could not say. The musical voice spoke up again, _**One more journey lays before you, one last leg of the race until you may return home.**_

He gave a small start. Whatever he had been expecting, it certainly had not bee that. _Another_ journey? Why him, of all people? Giving a tired sigh, he responded, still in the Gray Tongue, 'I do not question Your will and I shall, of course, follow it. But I should like very much to know why 'tis always me.'

A smile curved the graceful lips of Ilúvatar, _**Why you, indeed, Aragorn, son of Arathorn? You fulfilled your destiny and did far more than I could have ever foreseen. You have suffered much and lost much. Although you gave your entire heart to your subjects, 'twas never quite at peace, for you still remembered the family which you left behind.**_

Wild hope rose within his heart. His family…but, no, that was impossible…was it not?

_**Aye, my child, 'tis time for you to return **_**home.**_** Have you never wondered why I created Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, and many others, only to separate them in death? Many who have be named 'Elf-friend' forget the bonds which tie them to the Firstborns, and none but a few have ever ventured to look for them after death. **_**You**_** have been named 'Thriondil,' Elf-brother. Were you to forget the bond you forged with the one who named you as such, or forget the love which has been imprinted upon your heart by those who raised you, this journey would never have been offered to you. All speed, Estel, son of Elrond Half-Elven. My Grace and Blessings shall protect you.**_

Then everything all at once changed again.

Both the air and the light shimmered…

Ilúvatar vanished with a smile…

Shapes began to appear…

Sounds suspiciously like birds and other creatures began to fill the air, creating music of their own…

And all this in what seemed like a matter of seconds. Aragorn could not really tell—he had since lost any perception of time. But soon, bracken, foliage, and detritus stretched out for as far as his eyes could see. Around him tall trees of deep green soared above his head. Patches of perfect blue sky peeked through the magnificent branches. Rays of warmly bright sunlight filtered through the leaves. A beaten path twisted its way among gnarled, ancient, dark trunks.

With a whoop—very un-kinglike—Aragorn set off down the path at a run. Blazing light danced in his silver eyes, as if the very sun itself had been captured in them. Over streams, and dales, and hills he ran. He needed no food, no water. He was not tired, nor was he too cold or too hot. Here, in the lands across the sea, there was no death or illness, no sadness or grief. Exhaustion never reared its head, nor hunger or thirst. Pain was unheard of, fear alien. Or at least that was what he had always been told. He was _actually_ going home!

At length he left the forest, crossing across plains thick with wildflowers and heather, the grass soft against his deer-skin booted feet. His dark hair flew around his face, but he could care less. When he came to a river, he simply skimmed across it, hardly aware of what he was doing. He charged up hills and skidded down them, not once breaking pace. Exhilaration pumped through his veins, joy through his heart. He could not believe it, he was actually going _home_!

As he entered another forest, just as luscious as the first, a white deer herd bounded into his path. He ran with them, keeping pace with ease. Above him and around him, birds broke out into a chorus of blissful song. Aragorn's heart sang with them, keeping time effortlessly. He could not wait to see his loved ones again!

For what could have been mere moments or thousands of years, the Dúnadan ran tirelessly. The deer herd had left him some time ago, but the birds still sang their unceasing song. Nightingales had begun to add their own melody to the chorus, so he knew it would not be long until dusk. Already the rays streaming through the leaves had taken on a rosy color.

He ran a bit more.

Before he could begin to wonder if he would have to run at night or make camp (which he _highly_ doubted), Aragorn broke the woods…and could not help the cry of complete joy that escaped him; for there, just in front of him, was, well, Rivendell. The gates were the same, the bridge was the same, the path was the same, and the majestic buildings had not changed. The waterfalls still cascaded, the flowers still bloomed, and the beauty he had always known and always loved was still there…

Perhaps the only difference was that it seemed somehow larger and, if possible, more beautiful—more real. And no guards watched the path, the bridge, or the surrounding area. Pulling to a halt, he caught in his breath and drank in all the familiar, beloved scenes. 'Bar,' he murmured. Home.

If he had not been through so much already, he would have thought he was merely dreaming. But he knew, he knew—he was not. Barely managing to restrain himself, the wayward Dúnadan walked quickly towards what, for him, had forever been home, despite the many years he had spent in Gondor as her king and even as just a mere Ranger. The path itself was lined with brightly lit candles, prevented from toppling over in some way by either Mithrandir or Ilúvatar—as they were during Coirëmereth, Feast of Spring's Beginning. In fact, he would not be surprised if it _was_ Coirëmereth. Perfect, considering how much joy he had once derived from the celebration. But in all honesty, what _he_ was grateful for—more than anything—and would be for forever was that he had been _given_ this chance to return home, to the one place he felt he truly belonged.

As he made his way along the path to the largest hall in this Undying Imladris, the Hall of Fire, Aragorn picked up on Elfling laughter nearby. /The híni,/ he thought, smile widening and the first hint of tears in his eyes. He paused a moment, simply listening to the children as they laughed and tussled, shutting his eyes in gratitude.

Many a day on Middle-Earth had he entertained those Elflings, sharing with them stories of his adventures. While he had thoroughly enjoyed their company, he knew he could always seek them out later. Right now, the only people he really wanted to see were his Elven family members. And Legolas.

While he loved the twins and his _Adar_ dearly, Legolas, in truth, was the one he wanted to see most of all. For all those lonely years after the twins and his Elven father had sailed for the Undying Lands, Legolas had remained. He had been through hell and back with the Elven Prince more times than he _ever_ cared to count, and that formed a bond not so very easily broken. Furthermore, Legolas's naming of him as 'Thriondil' was something not even his Elven _father_ would have dared to do. Although, Valar knew, the Peredhil family's adoption of him held equal significance.

He slipped into the building without detection and navigated the familiar corridors to the Hall of Fire. At the entrance he halted, his breath hitching as he caught sight of the revelry taking place within. Music and laughter filtered out of the Hall, its fires' warm glow beckoning, welcoming, and a dearly loved sight. How he had longed to feel this once again! Would his father remember him? The twins? Even Legolas?

Soon, the music stopped and he could have cried. For there, at the head of hall, stood Elrond, his foster father. Behind the Peredhil on the dais sat the twins—Elladan and Elrohir. His brothers.

The Half-Elven Lord was speaking, congratulating the musicians. So long…so long since he had last heard his father's voice.

Then Elrond requested the musicians play Cuiviëlindë, Song of the Awakening, which Aragorn himself had composed as a young man. The reason for the composition was simply this: when he had been no more than eight years of age, he and his Elven family had visited Mirkwood for the Midsummer Celebration, a little over a year and a half after he had first met Legolas. Upon leaving the Woodland kingdom, his friend had gifted him a set of wooden pan pipes and a pendant.

The pendant—which he had worn nearly his entire life and, in fact, _still_ wore (Legolas had insisted, even when he was at the point of death)—bore an intricate design, one which meant eternal friendship. The pan pipes—which he had used tirelessly and were well-worn—bore an inscription in Sindarin: _'Our hearts are ever bound as one, mellon-nin. Though time shall pass, you will always have a friend in me.'_

And they were two of his most treasured possessions.

Now, his hand strayed almost unconsciously the pouch at his hip. He remembered the song well, had always loved playing it on those very pan pipes that Legolas's had given him, ones he still had even now. He also remembered that Cuiviëlindë required _two_ sets of pan pipes, one usually played by him and the other by Legolas.

A mischievous, slightly teary smile touched his lips. It would be the perfect way to reveal his presence on Valinor.

Thus resolved, he slipped the uilleann pipes out of the pouch on his hip and entered the Hall of Fire.

IOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOI

Cuiviëlindë had just finished. Thus far he had kept his eyes shut and face turned away from where his Elven family sat on the dais. Now, however, as a roar of applause greeted the end of the song, Aragorn at last turned in that direction, careful to keep his face and ears hidden by his dark hair, his eyes shut. He bowed, and stayed bowed, waiting for Elrond to speak.

Rising to his feet, the Elven Lord did so. His quick silver eyes flicking over the mysterious musician, he remarked in Sindarin, 'How is it you came to these Halls and in the garb of a Ranger, no less?'

Aragorn said nothing, not trusting his voice. Tears leaked out from underneath his closed eyelids.

As Elrond went to repeat the question, a sudden cry of joy came from the crowd. "It cannot be!" and two Hobbits burst into the center of the Hall of Fire, rushing towards the stranger and nearly bowling him over in their eagerness as they hugged him.

"Strider!" Frodo Baggins exclaimed quietly with a grin as he and Samwise Gamgee threw their short arms around the wayward Ranger.

Aragorn opened tear-damp eyes and laughed softly as he returned their embraces. "Frodo! Sam!"

Where they sat with their father, Elladan and Elrohir exchanged quizzical glances. Apparently, whoever this stranger was the two Hobbits knew him well.

Chuckling quietly, Mithrandir—also known as Gandalf the White—gained Elrond's side. The Peredhil looked just as confused as his twin sons. 'Mayhap you should greet this visitor in person,' he advised the Elven Lord softly, knowing that the twins could hear him. 'That way you will see his face.'

Elrond nodded and made his way down the steps of the dais, Elladan and Elrohir on his heels. Grinning widely, Mithrandir watched as Gimli the Dwarf joined the joyful reunion. Glancing around, he expected to find one extremely happy Elven Prince rushing forward, but that golden blond head was nowhere to be found. He called a servant to him, and the she-Elf bowed, waiting patiently for his orders. 'Please find Prince Legolas, young maiden. Tell him it is urgent.'

The she-Elf nodded, and with those cryptic words, scurried off. Nodding to himself, he made his way down the dais steps to join the others.

On the floor in the center of the Hall of Fire, Elrond and his twin sons had just reached the visitor who was practically being hugged to death by a teary Dwarf.

A smile twitched on Elrond's lips. "Good master Dwarf, I would thank you very kindly not to crush your friend here," the Peredhil remarked.

With a bright grin through tears, the Dwarf bent and whispered something very softly to the stranger, so soft that even as close as they were, none of the three Elves could hear him. Whatever he had said, it caused the stranger to laugh. Then the Dwarf stepped away, and with another brilliant grin at the Elven Lord, quickly ushered the Hobbits over to Gandalf.

Shaking his head in bemusement, Elrond stepped towards the visitor and touched the being's shoulder. At that contact, the stranger stiffened. "What brings you to these Halls?" he asked in Westron, thinking the visitor may not have understood him before.

Aragorn desperately battled back his tears, praying his voice would be steady. In flawless Sindarin, he murmured, 'To seek family.' He turned and at last raised his head, opening his eyes. '_My_ family, Ada.'

As if burnt by fire, Elrond jerked his hand away and stood perfectly still, staring at the face before him with such painful bewilderment that Aragorn felt his heart would surely break.

So familiar, so dear, the one that had haunted every hour of the long wait before they could go to Gondor, the one that even here in Valinor, had haunted his waking dreams. The one that he had never believed he would see again. From the moment Legolas had stepped onto the shores of the Undying Lands, Elrond knew, _knew_, that his human son, his beloved Estel, no longer lived. The prince would never have left his best friend's side if he still did. The tears in the younger Firstborn's eyes when he had looked at Elrond only confirmed it.

Legolas had not been himself since. The twins only made half-hearted attempts at jokes. Elrond himself took each day as it came, praying in some way that things would begin to turn out for the better. And they had, albeit slowly. One could hardly be in Valinor and _not_ heal, _not_ be happy. But the ache was strong, and had remained—he assumed it always would. The twins and Legolas felt the same, he knew.

But now that Aragorn stood before him, perfectly whole, those feelings that had begun to fade, rushed back with a startling new ferocity. He had no idea what to say, what to do. He wanted very much to cry, but at the same time could not shed even one tear.

Elladan and Elrohir took one look at their father's face and rushed forward, a desperate sort of hope rising in their hearts, but knowing at the same time that what, or rather, _whom_, they so dearly wished to see could not possibly be there. The youngest twin, in the lead, slid to an abrupt halt scarcely a few inches behind his father as he caught sight of the Dúnadan, his jaw going slightly slack and tears appearing in his eyes. Elladan, right on his heels, lightly crashed into his twin's back. But he barely noticed, already looking over Elrohir's shoulder at the visitor.

It was Aragorn.

Within seconds, his expression matched his Elven brother's. /Oh…Valar…/ the two Noldor Elves thought simultaneously.

Aragorn, for his part, had long ago given up on holding back his own tears. He looked between his Elven brothers, salty droplets of water streaming down his cheeks. Under any other circumstances, the expressions on their faces would have actually been quite humorous.

For what seemed like endless minutes, the silence stretched between them. At last, the Ranger could not stand it any longer. 'Say something!' he pleaded of his family. He had missed them all so much! Now that he was finally back with them, they breathed not a word. And because of that, Aragorn had no idea what to think. Did they still recognize him? Did they still love him? Did they even _remember_ him?

Finally, Elrohir carefully took a couple of steps forward, half-afraid that this was all some wonderful—or cruel—waking dream. 'T-Tithen muindor?' he choked, reaching out hesitantly to touch the Dúnadan's cheek.

As soon as the Elf's fingers brushed against his face, the human threw all restraint to the winds. He launched himself at a very startled Elrohir who'd hardly had time to grasp what his fingers had registered, flinging his arms around the youngest twin. Through tears, he choked, 'You _must_ remember! _Please_ remember! Please tell me I am still welcome here, welcome to _you_!'

Elrohir gave a strangled laugh, hugging his human brother tightly to him, 'Estel! What in Valinor are you talking about? Of _course_ I remember you, of _course_ you are welcome here, welcome to _me_…'

'Welcome home,' Elladan spoke up softly, stepping forward and completing his twin's sentence.

Aragorn looked up at the elder twin, the tears on his cheeks sparkling in the warm firelight which illuminated the hall all the way up to its very eaves. At that, Elladan's own tears fell as he pulled the Dúnadan, _and_ his twin, into his arms. Latching onto the front of Elladan's tunic with one hand and still holding onto Elrohir with the other, the human rested his head against the oldest twin's chest. 'My brothers,' he choked.

Murmurs swept through the gathered as the other Elves observed the two twins. The two Hobbits looked to Mithrandir and Gimli for an explanation. Gandalf chuckled, "Now _that_ is a long story."

Meanwhile, amidst the hundreds of questions, exclamations, and tears of,

'Estel!'

'What are you doing here?!'

'Why are you here?!'

'_How_ did you get here?!'

The twins pulled away from their human brother, still holding his arms, but otherwise with dazzling smiles and sparkling silver eyes.

The Dúnadan, though aware of his tears, made no move to dry them. He wanted to tell them so much—how he had been so lonely, how he would never have made it through were it not for Legolas, Gimli, the Hobbits, and his memories of his Elven family and the love they had shared, and that he had missed them more than anything in the world. What actually came out was little more than a slightly thick and strangled, 'Ilúvatar.'

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged startled glances. 'But no human has ever--'

Aragorn was on the verge of breaking down. But he told them in a rush, ''Twas Legolas and you. Many years ago when we were on the Quest he named me 'Thriondil.'' Judging from the shock that played across his brothers' faces, they had been unaware of that minor aspect. Small surprise considering 'Thriondil' was a personal nickname whose power was known only to the Elves, and even then, barely any dared take that particular step—or rather, plunge—into a friendship with a mortal. But he continued without pause, despite the fact that he was now practically sobbing, 'And I was marked by that love, as I had been so many years before even _that_ by you. Because you loved me so much, because I loved _you_ so much, and more importantly, still _do_, I--'

Fingers gently pressed against his lips, silencing him. Raising his head, he found himself looking into the eyes of the only father he had ever know, the only other being who seemed just as teary as him. Elrond. He gave a cry and launched himself at the older being, sobbing hard against the Firstborn's chest, 'Ada! Ada!' over and over, until his voice failed him.

For a short while, the only sounds that could be heard in the hall were the Dúnadan's sobs and the murmured reassurances of his father. The hall was struck silent, watching the scene unfold. Their lord had tears streaming down his cheeks as his tightly held the other being. At last, still gently holding his beloved child, Elrond raised his head and addressed the gathered in the Hall of Fire, 'My people, you see before you my son.' Murmurs rippled once more through the crowd. Aragorn looked up at his father. Smiling tenderly at his fosterling, the Elven Lord finished, 'We are now complete. Welcome home, my dear, dear child.'

The hall was silent a moment before it erupted in cheers and laughter. Whatever awe and tension had been in the air before, now dissipated and the music picked up once again, allowing the Hall of Fire to explode into the same bustle of activity it had been when Aragorn had first entered. The rest of the Elves, Gandalf, and even the Hobbits and Gimli took to the floor, dancing, as Elrond drew all three of his sons off to the side. One of whom had yet to let go of him.

'Estel, do you intend to stay in my arms the rest of the night?' Elrond teased gently.

The Dúnadan merely tightened his arms around his father and nodded.

A soft smile reappeared on the Elven Lord's face as he buried his face in the awry tresses of the son he had thought lost. His smile widened slightly as he felt the twins twine their arms around he and the human. Elrond would have been content to stay this way for many hours, but he knew that somewhere within these Halls there was one (even now) quite distraught Elven Prince. It was a strange thought, but Legolas had spent many more years with Aragorn than either he or the twins. Consequently, for him it had been the hardest to recover from the loss of the human, especially since Elrond had just now found out he had named the Dúnadan 'Thriondil.' The Peredhil reminded himself to thank the prince when next he had the chance, although 'hannon-lle' seemed hardly adequate.

He did not have to wait long.

A familiar cry from behind Aragorn brought an instant smile to Elrond's face. The twins stepped away and he knew they were probably grinning madly at the Elf whose footsteps he could hear rushing towards them.

'I believe you have another greeting to make, ion-nin,' he whispered, and gently released the Ranger who stepped back and look at him in momentary confusion before a lithe form hurtled past him.

Elrond found himself gazing into the midnight eyes of one frantic Elven Prince. One frantic Elven Prince who apparently had no idea that the friend he grieved for stood behind him now, and one frantic Elven Prince who had an almost viselike grip on is forearms. His eyes flashing with worry, Legolas Greenleaf demanded softly of the Peredhil, 'Lord Elrond! What happened?! Are you all right?! What is wrong?! The servant said it was urgent! You---'

Elrond successfully ended the tirade by pulling one now very _startled_ Elven Prince into a tight hug. Then stepping back, he tenderly took the confused Silvan Elf's face into his hands. Aware that his voice was probably rough with tears, but not particularly caring, Elrond murmured, 'Hannon-lle, young prince. Hannon-lle so, so much!'

Legolas's confusion tripled. 'My lord?'

Instead of answering him, the Peredhil smiled warmly at someone over Legolas's shoulder, giving a slight nod. He addressed the being quietly, 'Play something.'

Now _extremely_ confused, Legolas tried to turn and look at whoever-it-was behind him, but Elrond held his face still. Before he could ask any further questions, music split the air. The Silvan Elf's heart leapt into his throat as he recognized the instrument.

Pan pipes.

Furthermore, 'twas a melody he would have recognized anywhere, and 'twas known to only one other being. But that being was dead. And it caused him incredible anguish and an alarming amount of hope.

As a sob was loosed from his throat, Legolas begged in his mind/Oh, Valar, please, please…!/ But he did not know whether he was begging for the tune to vanish and the memories evoked to go with it, or whether he was praying that this tune meant more than memories existed.

Apparently, Elrond understood this. 'Your ears deceive you not, young Greenleaf,' he advised the prince softly. 'And for that, you have only yourself and Ilúvatar to thank. Once you promised me to protect and care for my Estel. You did not keep that promise. Nay, you went far beyond it, far beyond anything I could have ever asked of you. Despite knowing the consequences and risks of your actions, you named another 'Thriondil,' a mortal.' And dropping a kiss on the prince's forehead, gently released the Silvan Elf.

The music stopped.

Suddenly desperate to hear it again, Legolas whirled around…and was unable to stifle the cry that was torn from his lips.

'You are not real! You _cannot _be real!' the prince sobbed. This could not be happening! This was not actually occurring! How could a mortal doomed to death be brought back to life, Dúnadan that he was? How could the beloved friend he held in his arms as the human drew his last breath be standing in front of him now? How could the old king be so youthful? How could the royalty be the Ranger he once was? How could his beloved brother, his beloved hope, be right here, right now, treading where precious few mortals had ever trodden before?

Aragorn took a step towards him, eyes bright with tears.

'You died!' Legolas choked out, pressing his fists tightly to his heart, praying it would not break—not here, not now—and consequently against the worn stone and wood pendant that still hung there.

Aragorn continued walking towards him, tears spilling over onto his cheeks.

'I held you,' the Silvan Elf wept, 'I _held_ you! I felt the last breath leave your body!'

Aragorn came closer, now but a step away, his face suffused with love.

'I grieved for you! I missed you!' Abruptly, Legolas's voice dropped to a whisper, his torment palpable, 'I loved you.'

He had known the risks he would be taking, known that he had every chance of dying from a broken heart. And he nearly had…but Aragorn had made him promise.

Aragorn, who had reached him and, presently, tenderly took Legolas's face into his hands.

The prince started crying in earnest as his mind registered the roughness, the warmth, the _reality_ of the Dúnadan's hands. His voice broke. 'Why do you haunt me, Aragorn?'

'I haunt you no more now than I did in all the years we spent on Middle-Earth,' Aragorn choked out, voice thick. 'I have never left you once. I am still here.' He pulled the sobbing Elf into a tight hug. His own voice cracked. His breathing hitched. 'Never once.'

It was impossible to ignore the fact that Legolas's reaction was more dramatic than even his Elven father's. It was impossible to deny the fact that the Elven Prince's harsh sobbing cut at his heart like a knife. It was impossible to forget the fact that _he_ was the cause of all this…

'You are mortal, Aragorn,' Legolas murmured into the Dúnadan's shoulder. 'You cannot control what is natural.' The statement was meant as both a question and a way to assuage the guilt he _knew_ the Ranger would be feeling. If it even was the Ranger, if this really was not a dream, and frankly, Legolas did not know either way—which was why he still had not called this man (or ghost, or mirage, or hallucination) by the name of 'Thriondil.' That endearment belonged to a being across the sea, to the being who was, for all purposes necessary, his brother, to the man who had healed him, to the man who, to all his knowledge, should be buried beneath layers of dirt in the Tomb of Kings. Despite the fact that the Dúnadan he was currently pressed against felt very real and very warm, despite the fact that he could hear the Dúnadan's heart thump strongly under his ear, the Silvan Elf could not bring himself to call him 'Thriondil.'

'Reading my mind again, Elf?' Aragorn teased gently, hoping to draw Legolas out of his apparent shock and disbelief.

'I have learned to know your thoughts as well as I know my own, perhaps better, or at least the thoughts of a king who is buried across the sea,' the Elven Prince whispered.

Aragorn sighed and released the lithe archer. He gazed into the pain-and-tear-filled-eyes that were locked onto his own sorrowful silver ones. 'You grieve for me, yet. What must I do to convince you of the truth?'

Ghost or not, Legolas had never been able to abide by hurting Aragorn, and right now, Aragorn was hurting. Before he could even think about it, the words were out of his mouth, 'Do not be angry at yourself, nor condemn yourself. If that condemnation be necessary, let it transfer to my shoulders, for my inability to believe what is before me and what my heart prays is truly there.'

'I _am_ truly here, mellon-nin,' Aragorn murmured, catching up the prince's hands and pressing them to his heart. His heart…A bright grin, slightly tinged with mischief, suddenly lit his face. 'And I think I know how to convince you of it.'

Legolas gave him a look of utter disbelief.

Gently dropping the Silvan Elf's hands, the Dúnadan allowed his smile to broaden somewhat. 'You must trust me. Shut your eyes.'

Recognizing the words, ones spoken so very long ago, Legolas's eyes widened a little and tears rushed back into the midnight orbs. Oh, Valar, did he truly mean what the prince desperately hoped he did?

Aragorn's grin softened. 'Shut your eyes,' he repeated quietly.

Choking back a sob, the Silvan Elf did so.

The Ranger nodded to himself, reached up, and gingerly unlatched the half-pendant he knew would be there from around his neck. The prince had insisted on his keeping it, even as he lay—dying—in the arms of his beloved friend. He supposed he should have expected this reaction, considering that, as Legolas had so tearfully exclaimed, the Silvan Elf had held him as he breathed his last.

But it still hurt.

Just as carefully and reverently, Aragorn lifted the prince's own half-pendant off his neck and over his head, making certain not to catch it in Legolas's long, blond hair.

As a sob made it past his lips, the Silvan archer pressed them tightly together. On the Firstborn's normally mischievous face, Aragorn was able to read the internal conflict his best friend was suffering through—a desperate need to know the truth warred with a wild hope.

Once both necklaces were in his hands, the Dúnadan latched the two together without, after years of wear, a sound audible to even Elf ears. Then, taking Legolas's hands again, the Ranger pressed the completed pendant into his palms, and still clasping the prince's hands, leaned forward and tenderly kissed the Woodland Elf's brow. Releasing his best friend's hands, he murmured, 'Will you believe me now, gwador-nin?'

But he need not have asked. As soon as he had let go of the Firstborn's hands, the midnight eyes of the prince flew open. With barely a glance at the stone pendant, he gave a cry of pure joy and launched himself at the Dúnadan. '_Thriondil_!'

Aragorn started crying all over again.

**I Veth (The End)!**

**Elvish Translations:**

**Gwador-nin (my (sworn) brother)**

**Estel (one of Aragorn's many names, this given to him by Lord Elrond; it means Hope)**

**Thriondil (Elf-brother)**

**Bar (Home)**

**Coirëmereth (Feast of Spring's Beginning)**

**Imladris (Rivendell)**

**Híni (children)**

**Adar (Father)**

**Peredhil (Half-Elven)**

**Cuiviëlindë (Song of the Awakening)**

**Ada (Papa)**

**Tithen muindor (Little brother)**

**Ion-nin (My son)**

**Hannon-le (Thank you)**

**Mellon-nin (My friend)**


End file.
